Murder in Mind (19 page)

'So, Harry says old Temperance Bob is a bit stiff in his back,' Matt said presently. 'I gather Toby Potter is coming out to have a look at him sometime.'

Leonard frowned at his son.

'That's news to me. When was that arranged?'

'Oh, it was just an idea – nothing definite.'

Matt regarded his friend thoughtfully, but made no further comment. On the phone, Toby had certainly sounded like someone breaking a fixed appointment, but Harry didn't seem bothered, and Matt had more pressing matters occupying his mind.

'Am I still on Cantablay tomorrow?' he asked Leonard.

The trainer nodded.

'Yeah. I've already made the declarations for the next couple of days, so you should be safe.'

'Thanks.' It was something, he supposed. 'How many of the owners will stick with me, do you think?'

Leonard shrugged.

'I've not had any complaints, as yet. But, if word gets round that the Guv has lost confidence in you – well, you saw what happened to Jamie.'

'But Matt's been riding for them a hell of a lot longer than Jamie had,' Harry put in. 'Doesn't that count for anything?'

'It should do,' his father said. 'I'll do my best for you, Matt – you know that – but at the end of the day . . .'

'Yeah, I know. It's Brewer who pays your wages,' Matt said. 'Don't worry, I know your hands are tied.'

When he left Rockfield, Matt drove to Charlborough to see DI Bartholomew and, surprisingly, was shown into his office almost straight away. The reason was made clear to Matt immediately.

'You just caught me. I can give you five minutes and then I have an appointment with a golf course,' the detective said, waving his hand to suggest that Matt sit in the black leather-look chair in front of his desk. 'So, have you come to reveal the identity of Sophie Bradford's murderer?'

Matt sat down. The office was smallish with black and chrome furniture, a grey Venetian blind at the window, and a bank of filing cabinets against one wall. A crime-fighting slogan bounced across the computer monitor as a screen saver and paperwork was piled on every flat surface. It had about as much warmth of character as Bartholomew himself.

'I thought your computer was going to do that,' he countered.

'It takes time, and HOLMES is only as good as the information we feed it.'

'Well, have you tried feeding it with Lord Kenning?'

Bartholomew's eyes narrowed.

'Of course, as one of Sophie Bradford relations.'

'Well, how about as her lover? Her sugar daddy, to be more specific'

'And exactly what makes you think that?'

Matt explained what he'd found out from Tara Goodwin about the mysterious Mosie; from Casey about Kenning's middle name and his ongoing love of Jaguars; and about the rumour that Razor had started about Sophie and Kenning.

'Razor – that is, Geoff Hislop – swears he made a mistake, but I don't believe him. Casey says she was warned off the subject in no uncertain manner by her editor. I think pressure was brought to bear. The man has a lot of clout.'

'Well, I'm not surprised. Nobody wants that kind of publicity. It doesn't prove there's any truth in the rumour. Even if there was such a relationship – and, personally, I think your link is tenuous – Lord Kenning wasn't at the party that night and he has a rock-solid alibi.'

'But you will speak to him?'

'Oh, I'll have a word with him,' Bartholomew said, nodding. 'This very morning, in fact. I'm playing golf with him in half an hour.' He stood up. 'Was there anything else?'

It had been Matt's intention to tell the detective about the attack at Maiden Newton, but, in the face of this revelation, his resolve wavered. His original doubts resurfaced. With no evidence to present in support of his tale, except a partial registration plate, was it worth incurring a lashing from Bartholomew's acid tongue over his failure to report the incident straight away?

He hesitated. He hadn't heard from Casey yet. Perhaps he should wait and see what she turned up.

'Mr Shepherd?'

'No, nothing,' he heard himself say.

Matt drove home fast, finding an outlet for his frustration in pushing the limits, but any hopes he had that the mood at Spinney Cottage would be an improvement on the one he had left behind at the yard were doomed to be dashed.

He found Jamie and Kendra in the kitchen with the breakfast dishes still on the table, and the expressions on their faces warned him of a fresh catastrophe in store.

'If it's bad news – I don't want to hear it,' he said, straightening up from greeting the dogs.

Mutely, Kendra held up a copy of the
Daily Standard.
It was open and folded back on the racing pages, which were dominated by a large photo of Matt's fall in the last at Maiden Newton, with a superb action shot of the horse sprawling on his knees and Matt himself headed turfward. Above this masterpiece were the words 'How Low Can Mojo Go?'

Matt shrugged.

'Very funny. Just some hack with a warped sense of humour and way too much time on his hands.'

'No. Read it,' Jamie said.

Reluctantly, Matt held out his hand for the paper.

The article opened with an account of the race leading up to the pictured fall, somehow managing to convey – without saying it outright – that it had been through some fault of Matt's that the animal had fallen. Conveniently passing over his victory in the first, it described his poor results in the other three races of the day, making it sound as though his two-day suspension for failing to ride out the finish on Temperance Bob was the just reward for a series of poor efforts.

'But could there be a more sinister reason why such a capable jockey has suddenly started to lose races?' it went on to ask. 'Is there more to this than meets the eye? It hasn't escaped our notice that Matt Shepherd has been singled out for two drug tests in the last month. What are we not being told? Regular readers will remember that Matt Shepherd is the jockey who famously claimed that he would beat the police to discovering the identity of socialite Sophie Bradford's killer. We are still waiting – but, in the meantime, is Matt's mind really on the day job?

'We wouldn't like to say, but rumour has it that trainer John Leonard is getting jittery, with several of his owners – most notably millionaire businessman Charlie Brewer – asking for another jockey to ride their horses. Is Mojo's promising career going down the same drain that claimed that of his close friend, Jamie Mullin?'

It was no surprise to find that the piece had been written by Dave Rossiter, the journalist Casey had told him was responsible for the damaging articles about Jamie.

'How the bloody hell did they find out about the drug tests?' Matt demanded. 'That bastard Razor, I bet!'

'But how can they say that about Daddy?' Kendra asked, disregarding his remark to concentrate on the issue that concerned her most closely. 'He wouldn't do that to you.'

Matt didn't know quite what to say, so he said nothing, but Jamie was watching him closely and had no such reservations.

'My God! He already has, hasn't he? He's pulled the rug out from under you, like he did me!'

'That's not true!' Kendra's blue eyes beseeched him to deny it. 'Matt?'

'He had Ray Landon try out Secundo this morning,' Matt told her, loath to shatter her faith. 'But they can't have known that.'

'But why?'

'He says he's not happy with my riding anymore.'

'Bollocks!' Jamie said, explosively.

'That doesn't make sense,' Kendra protested. 'He's always said you'd be champion jockey one day . . .'

'Apparently he doesn't believe I'm totally committed to my job,' Matt told her, failing to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

'But Daddy wouldn't do that to you,' she repeated. 'They must have got it wrong. You must have misunderstood. I'll ring him.'

She swung round, then paused as she found the base unit empty.

'It's in the new kitchen, on the windowsill,' Jamie said. 'I remember seeing it yesterday.'

As Kendra disappeared in search of the handset, he turned to Matt.

'This is all because of me. I know what you said yesterday, and I appreciate it, but I really should go. No –' he said, forestalling Matt's protest. 'I won't go to Cambridge. Pete, down at The White Bull, has offered me some bar work and there's a room if I want it. I think I should take him up on it. You two need some space. But you have to leave this Sophie thing now and concentrate on your career.'

'Jamie . . .'

'No, Matt. I'm serious. I appreciate what you've done for me, but there's no sense in both of us fucking up our lives. You've got Kendra and the baby to think of. Maybe, if I go, you can get back on track with Brewer and, after all, I
am
innocent, so, sooner or later, they'll find the bastard who really did kill Sophie and then maybe we can get back to where we were before this nightmare started.'

Matt scanned Jamie's face and saw that he was in earnest. He knew it was the sensible thing to do, but it went against the grain to back down and let Lord Kenning win. He moved to the window and looked out, common sense wrestling with inclination.

'Come on, Matt. You know I'm right . . .'

Matt sighed.

'OK. Thanks. Just for a while, maybe. Until things settle down a bit. But I've got a horrible feeling I may just have made things worse.' He told Jamie about his visit to the police station. 'It's entirely possible that Bartholomew is bringing up the subject of Kenning's relationship with Sophie as we speak,' he said ruefully. 'And there are no prizes for guessing who Kenning will blame for that.'

Jamie made a face.

'Oh dear.'

'Precisely.'

The door swung open and Kendra reappeared with the phone in her hand and tears glistening in her eyes.

'I can't believe it! He just won't listen. He says it's down to you to prove yourself, but it's like he's already made up his mind. I just couldn't get through to him.'

Matt could see that her inability to win her father over was upsetting her almost as much as Brewer's unfair treatment of him, and he went to her, wrapping her in an embrace.

'It's all right, love. We'll sort it out.'

'But it's so unfair! I don't know what's got into him.'

'Well, I may be wrong, but I think Kenning's got a lot to do with this. I'm pretty sure he was behind that second drug test, and it could well have been him that tipped off the paper. In fact – I remember now – he hinted that it could happen.'

'But what are you going to do?'

Still hugging her, Matt explained about Jamie's moving out and, after an initial protest, she agreed that it might be for the best. What he didn't share with either of them was his growing determination that Kenning shouldn't be allowed to get away with the ruinous campaign he was waging.

What they didn't know, they wouldn't worry about.

Racing, the next day, was at Henfield, a smallish course on the Sussex Downs. Matt was booked to ride Cantablay for Kendra's father and a novice for Doogie McKenzie, but it seemed that Brewer's prediction was correct, for one other owner had jocked him off at the declaration stage and the only additional ride Josh Harper had managed to secure for him was on one of Westerby's horses.

'Sorry Matt,' his agent had said the night before. 'I don't think many people actually believe there's a problem with your riding, but they don't want to take any chances. It becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. But this horse of Westerby's is no slouch. It won a couple of useful races earlier this year. Certainly isn't another Khaki Kollin.'

Doogie's novice was Matt's first ride of the day, but it had never been on a racecourse before and ran very green. Matt coaxed enough of a run from it to pass the post in sixth place, which satisfied its connections, but would do little to redeem his besieged reputation.

Brewer's horse, Cantablay, was favourite to win the big race of the afternoon, and the businessman was in the paddock with Leonard when Matt made his way out to ride.

'The only thing capable of coming close is Louisiana Lou, and you beat her at Worcester the other week,' he reminded Matt. 'I don't want any foul-ups this time.'

'Yes, sir.' Matt kept his tone respectful with an effort. 'Any special instructions?' Brewer always left the issuing of directions to Leonard, and they both knew it.

'Just do your bloody job!' was the low-voiced reply.

As the trainer stepped forward to boost Matt into the saddle, he muttered, 'For God's sake, don't wind him up!'

Once on board and out on the course, Matt began to relax, feeling the tensions of the past couple of days dissipate in the wind that whipped past his ears. Cantablay felt strong and sensible, and although Louisiana Lou, with Razor on his back, looked fit and keen, she had been well beaten on their last meeting and, barring accidents, Matt could see no reason why the places should be reversed.

An accident was exactly what happened.

As usual, the bay travelled well, jumping cleanly and with enthusiasm. Matt kept him just behind the leaders until they approached the third last, where he eased the horse out of the pack to give him space to run on, but the fates were against him.

As he landed over the birch, the horse slightly ahead and to his inside pecked and pitched sideways, bringing Matt's horse down in a tangle of legs.

Seeing the ground flashing towards him, Matt swore, ducked his left shoulder, and rolled, turning two complete somersaults before he came to a halt.

Looking back, Matt saw that Cantablay had also rolled and was now struggling to his feet, but one despairing glance instantly told him that the bay gelding's racing days were over, his near fore dangling uselessly from below the knee.

'Steady lad,' he soothed, going forward to catch the trailing rein.

Not understanding what had happened to him, the horse tried to walk and almost fell, his eyes white-rimmed with pain and sudden fear.

'Whoah, steady. It's all right,' Matt lied, as the horse ambulance drew up on the other side of the rails.

How low can Mojo go?
Matt quoted to himself gloomily, as he trudged back up the path to the weighing room. For the time being, he'd managed to avoid Brewer, but he knew he'd have to face him sometime. The fall had been no fault of his – just one of the sad statistics of National Hunt racing – but, although it wasn't the first time it had happened to him and was unlikely to be the last, it was always distressing.